“Oh, stop being so melodramatic! You haven’t the faintest connection, as far as I can see, with all this … why should you be in danger?”
“Because of my theories,” I said a little pompously … as a matter of fact I was still completely at sea.
Ellen said a short four-letter word which communicated her opinion of my detective abilities with Saxon simplicity.
“Tell me, then,” I said coolly, “why I should be shoved downstairs in the dark with such force that I could’ve broken my neck …”
“If your head hadn’t been so solid,” said the insensitive Ellen, rolling snake eyes. “By the way did you get a look at whoever it was who pushed you?”
“How could I? I told you it was dark on the landing.”
“I must say all that’s very exciting … it’s the one really interesting thing that’s happened since the murder.”
What a cold-blooded piece she was, I thought. She acted as though she were in a theater watching a play, interested only in being shocked or amused. I wondered if she might not have been the illegitimate daughter after all … no Electra she, as Time Magazine would say. “It would be a lot more interesting if they could find out what the murderer wanted in that room.”
“Why? Did he take anything?”
“Not as far as the police could tell. There weren’t any papers there anyway … everything had been taken down to headquarters.”
“Poor Rufus.”
“Why do you say that?”
“He’s terrified all his political shenanigans will be found out … he and Father were awfully close, you know … I suspect they were involved in all sorts of deals which might not bear investigating.”
“Well, if there was anything shady the police haven’t found it,” I said with more authority than I actually had: I was not naive enough to think Lieutenant Winters had confided all he knew to me. “I wonder if Rufus could have been the one who knocked the guard out last night, and pushed me downstairs.”
“I wouldn’t be at all surprised.”
“I doubt if there was anything in there the murderer could have wanted … if there had been he would have got it the night of the murder, before the murder … unless he left something by mistake.”
“Which the police would have found by now.”
There were so few real leads, I thought sadly. Pomeroy’s feud over the 5-X; Langdon’s strange quotation and highly political attitude … very much the fanatic type; Rufus Hollister’s terror of certain documents falling into the hands of the police; Camilla Pomeroy’s unexpected relationship to the Senator … her large inheritance which provided both her and her husband with ample motive for murder. But had they known she was included in the will? Had Pomeroy known that his wife was the Senator’s daughter? This was a question which should be cleared up soon: it would make a great deal of difference.
Across the room I saw Langdon excuse himself and go upstairs; a moment later Ellen gave a vast stage yawn and said, “I’m worn out, darling. I think I’ll go up now.”
“And get a little shut-eye?” I mocked.
“Don’t be a cad,” she said grandly and swept out of the room.
I found Winters in the dining room going over what looked like a carbon copy of the will. He looked up when I came in; his ever-present plain-clothes man made a move to bar my way but Winters wearily waved him aside. “Come on in.”
I sat beside him at the table. I asked the important question first.
He nodded in answer. “Yes, Pomeroy knew who his wife’s father was. It seems she told him last year … at the height of his quarrel with the Senator … she thought it would make him more reasonable.”
“Did it?”
Winters sighed. “The big question.”
“There’s a bigger question … did either of them know about the will?”
“It’ll be a long time before we figure that one out,” said the Lieutenant grimly. “Both deny having known anything about it. But …”
“But you think they did.”
He nodded. “The Governor drew up the will … he’s also Pomeroy’s lawyer, and an old friend.”
“Can’t very well grill a Governor.”
“Not directly.”
Remembering the pressure on my knee at the Cathedral, I had an idea. “I think I can find out something about the will, from Mrs. Pomeroy.” I told him about the knee-pressing episode. He was interested.
“It would be a great help. It’d just about wind up the case we’re making against Pomeroy: double motive, the weapon, the opportunity …”
“Two more suspects, though.”
“Who?”
“Hollister … he and the Senator were obviously involved in some illegal activities. And Langdon who’s something of a fanatic.” I related the business about the quotation but it was much too tenuous for the official mind. As for Hollister, we both agreed that he was an unlikely murderer since, had he done away with the Senator, he would have taken care to have got all the incriminating papers out of the study first. With a promise to do my best with Mrs. Pomeroy, I left Winters to his bleak study of the will.
I was staring at my typewriter with a feeling of great frustration, when there was a rap on my door. “Come in,” I said.
Rufus Hollister put his head inside the door, tentatively, like one of those clowns at a carnival who make targets of their heads for customers with beanbags. “May I come in?”
“Sure.” I motioned to the armchair opposite me. He sat down with a moan, crumpled I should say. I sat very straight at my desk, the light behind my head, ready to yell if he pulled a gun on me.
But if Rufus was the murderer, he was not in a murdering mood. In fact he was hardly coherent. “Just wandering by,” he mumbled.
“If I had a drink I’d offer it to you.”
“Quite all right. I’ve had a few already … maybe too many.” He sighed again, deeply; then he took off his thick spectacles and rubbed his owl eyes … they were rather tiny I noticed … quite different without the magnifying glasses.
“Do the papers know yet?” I asked, recalling that I was, after all, in the public relations business.
“Know?” He blinked at me.
“About the will? About Mrs. Pomeroy?”
“Not yet. I suppose they will be told tomorrow.”
“Has Mrs. Rhodes tried to do anything to keep the news out of the papers?”
“You know as well as I do there isn’t any way of keeping something like that secret.”
“I know. I just wondered if she had tried to keep it quiet.”
Rufus shrugged. “I haven’t seen her since the will was read.” There was a long pause. I wondered when he would come to the point; he obviously had some reason for wanting to see me. But he said nothing. He stared blankly at the floor; he seemed a little drunk.
Growing nervous, I said, “Is there anything in particular you think I should do for the family … in the way of public relations?”
“What? Oh … oh, no. It’s out of our hands now, I’m afraid.” He put his glasses on again and looked at me; with an effort he pulled himself together. “You’re doing a story about all this, aren’t you?”
I nodded. “For the Globe.”
“I wish you’d check with me before you send them anything.”
“Certainly … if I can ever find out anything to write for them.”
“You will,” he said ominously. “Soon, very soon.”
I waited for more, but he had drifted off again. “Tell me,” I asked, “did the Pomeroys come here much in the old days?”
He shook his head. “Pomeroy himself seldom came to the house. Mrs. Pomeroy did … fairly often.”
This was unexpected. “I seem to remember her telling me … or somebody telling me that they never came here, either of them.”
“She was here often.”
“And she knew the Senator’s habits well?”
He nodded; he knew what I was getting at but he refused to volunteer anything. He changed the
subject. “You and Ellen are old friends aren’t you?”
I said that we were.
“She made her father unhappy, very unhappy,” said Mr. Hollister rubbing his palms together. It was my turn to wonder what he was getting at. “Her life has not been exemplary.”
“You’re not kidding!”
“At one time he even threatened to cut her off without a cent.”
“You mean when she married?”
“Later … last year when she was making a scandal of herself in New York.”
“I can’t exactly blame him.”
“Poor man … he had so many terrible things to bear during his life.”
“Why didn’t he cut her off?”
“Ah! You know her. She came down from New York last month and they had a terrible scene. I suppose she threatened to disgrace him once and for all if he didn’t give her the money she needed …”
“That sounds like Ellen.”
“What could he do? She was his own flesh and blood …”
“And he was about to run for President …”
“Exactly. She got her way … we always supposed that she had left for good until she came back with you this week. Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why did she come back?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. It seemed like a good idea, I suppose. We had both been drinking.”
“That explains it then?”
“She drinks a lot,” I added, but this wasn’t necessary … and still Mr. Hollister hadn’t come to the point.
“By the way,” he asked suddenly, “did you have any idea who pushed you last night?”
I shook my head; then I had an idea … a daring one. “I didn’t see who it was,” I said; then I added, slowly, looking straight at him, “But I have a very good idea who it was.”
I wasn’t able to interpret his reaction; he turned pale but I couldn’t tell if it was from guilt or astonishment. “Did you see anything?” he asked.
“A glimpse, that was all. I couldn’t say for sure who it was but I have a good idea.”
“Who … who do you think it was?” He sat on the edge of his chair, his breath coming in quick gasps.
“I can’t tell you,” I said, waiting for some sign … but there was none, other than this excitement.
“Be careful,” he said at last. “Be careful what you say to the police. The repercussions might be serious.”
“I know what I’m doing,” I said quietly, never more confused.
“I hope so. By the way, did the Senator talk to you at all about family matters?”
“No, not much … a little about Ellen since he thought I was going to marry her, but I straightened all that out.”
“And the campaign … did he talk about that? About those close to him in it?”
“Not a word … just general talk.”
“That was a pity,” he said cryptically; then he rose to go. I stopped him momentarily with a direct question.
“Who killed him?” I asked.
“Pomeroy,” said Rufus Hollister; then he said good night and left me.
4
I undressed slowly, thinking of what had been said. Hollister made me uneasy … I couldn’t tell just why but I had more than a faint suspicion that he might have been the murderer after all. It was evident that he had visited me to try and find out whether or not I had recognized whoever it was who’d shoved me down the stairs and it was possible that he was the one who had done the shoving … the murder, too? It was perplexing. I locked the door, leaving the key in the lock. I was nervous.
Then, dressed in pajamas, I sat down at the desk again and began to type idly. Pomeroy, Langdon, Hollister, Miss Pruitt, Mrs. Rhodes, Ellen, Mrs. Pomeroy. There was a knock on the door. I flipped on the overhead light (if I was to be shot I preferred a great deal of light); then I unlocked the door and slowly opened it. To my surprise Camilla Pomeroy, wearing a pale blue silk negligee, stood in the doorway.
“May I come in?” she asked in a low voice.
Startled, I said, “Yes.” I locked the door behind her. She stood in the center of the room as though unsure of herself, not certain what to do next. “Sit down,” I said, trying to be as casual as I could under the circumstances. Uncertainly, she went over to the armchair recently vacated by Rufus Hollister. She sat down; I sat opposite her. She was nearly as embarrassed as I.
“I … couldn’t sleep,” she said at last with a nervous laugh.
“Neither could I.” We looked at one another stupidly. I noticed with surprise how lovely she was … noticed also that she had not yet been to bed: her make-up was perfect and her hair was carefully arranged.
“You must think it awful of me coming in here like this in the middle of the night.” This came out in a rush.
“Why no … not at all.”
“I had to talk to someone.” She did sound desperate, I thought. I wondered whether or not I should suggest that her husband might be the man to talk to at this time of night. She guessed what I was thinking, though. “He’s asleep. He takes sleeping pills … very strong ones, since … it happened.” She almost sobbed. I wondered if I should get her a Kleenex. But she got a hold of herself. “Do turn that light out,” she motioned to the bright one overhead. “A woman doesn’t like too direct a light when she’s been crying.” Her attempt at frivolity was pretty ghastly but I turned out the light. She looked even better in the warm glow of a single lamp … and of course her looking better hardly helped the cause.
“Thank you,” she murmured. She pulled the negligee tight about her throat, emphasizing the full curve of her breasts. I wondered if she intended this.
“I had to talk to someone,” she repeated. I looked at her brightly, like one of those doctors in an advertisement: ready to make some comment about halitosis or life insurance.
“About … everything,” she said.
“About the will?”
“Yes.” She looked at me gratefully; glad that I was coming around. “Tomorrow all the world will know,” she said with a certain insincere overstatement which made me think that for a million dollars she didn’t give a damn what the world knew.
“There’s nothing you can do about it now,” I said soothingly.
“If only there were!” She still held one hand close to her throat, the way bad actresses do in moments of crisis on stage.
“People forget so quickly,” I said.
“Not in Talisman City,” she snapped. Then, recollecting herself, she added more softly, “The world is so unkind.”
I allowed that, all things considered, this was so.
“It was unfair of Lee … of my father to act the way he did.”
“You mean in … being your father?” I was dense.
“No, I mean in declaring to all the world my … shame.”
To which I replied, “Ah.”
“I can’t think why he chose to do it like this, so publicly.”
“Probably because there wasn’t any other way of leaving you his money.”
There was no real answer to this so she exclaimed again how terrible it all was.
“What does your husband think about it?”
She sighed.
“Did he know all along that … about the Senator and you?”
“Oh yes. He’s known for a year.”
“And the will … did he know about that, too?”
She closed her eyes, as though in pain. “Yes,” she said softly, “I think he knew about the will, too. I think the Governor told him.”
“But they never told you?”
She hesitated. “No,” she said. “Not exactly. I suppose I knew, in a way, but they never actually told me.” This was a bit of news, I thought. The outline of a plot suggested itself to me. “My husband never liked to talk about it … neither did I. It was just one of those things. What was that?” She started, and looked toward the door.
Nervously, expecting an angry husband, I opened the door and looked out. The
hall was empty. “It was the wind,” I said, turning around. She was standing directly behind me … I could smell the musk and rose of her perfume.
“I’m frightened,” she said and this time she was not play-acting. I moved back into the room, expecting her to move too but she did not. Then I had my arms around her and we edged toward the bed. She wore nothing under the blue silk negligee and her body was voluptuous and had a young feel to it, smooth and taut with wide firm hips and her nipples pressed hard against my chest, burning through the pajama top. We kissed. She was no novice at this sort of thing, I thought as she gave the cord of my pajama trousers a deft tug and they fell to the floor beside her crumpled dressing gown. She pulled me against her violently and for a moment we stood swaying back and forth in one another’s arms. Then we fell across the bed.
An hour passed.
I sat up and looked down at her white body sprawled upon the bed; the eyes shut and her breathing regular and deep. “It’s late,” I said in a low voice.
She smiled drowsily and opened her eyes. “I haven’t been so relaxed in a long time,” she said.
“Neither have I,” I lied nervously; I didn’t like the idea of being treated like some kind of sedative.
She sat up on one elbow and pushed her hair back out of her eyes. She was obviously proud of her body; she arranged it to look like the Duchess of Alba. “What on earth would my husband say.”
“I hope I never know,” I said devoutly.
She smiled languorously. “He’ll never know.”
“Great thing sleeping pills.”
“I don’t make a habit of this,” she said sharply.
“I didn’t say you did.”
“I mean … well, I’m not promiscuous, that’s all … not the way Ellen is.”
I was a little irritated by this. Somehow, I felt she had no business talking about Ellen like that since, for all she knew, we might really have been engaged. “Ellen’s not that bad,” I said pulling on my pajamas. Then I handed her her negligee. “You don’t want that cold to get worse, do you?”
Reluctantly she snaked into the blue silk. “I’m very very fond of Ellen,” she said with a brilliant insincere smile. “But you have to admit she’s a law unto herself.”
I was about to make some crack about their being sisters under the skin when it occurred to me that this might be tactless since, as a matter of fact, they were sisters in a way.